


the life that I have made in song

by mambo



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types
Genre: Comfort!Bucky, Established Relationship, Extended Tags In End Note, Hurt!Steve, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Notions of Toxic Masculinity, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-27
Updated: 2015-12-27
Packaged: 2018-05-09 16:30:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,842
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5547353
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mambo/pseuds/mambo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Steve can't sleep. Bucky notices.</p><p>(a Stucky Secret Santa gift for pesmenos on Tumblr)</p>
            </blockquote>





	the life that I have made in song

**Author's Note:**

  * For [earthseraph](https://archiveofourown.org/users/earthseraph/gifts).



> SURPRISE SYD, IT IS I, YOUR SECRET SANTA. I tried to hit most of what you asked for on your prompt and I hope you like it! This kind of fic is far from my area of expertise, but I tried my best to write something you'll like! 
> 
> Extended warnings are in the end notes!

_And if I seem to be afraid_

_To live the life that I have made in song_

_It’s just that I’ve been losing so long_

—“These Days” - Nico

**…**

“Smile, Cap. You’ve got to _smile_.”

Steve tries and the cameras’ flashes starting all at once make him flinch. He stumbles back, crashing into a reflector and falling on his ass. He can only watch as the reflector tips back onto the white screen he was instructed to stand in front of, and winces as it rips. “I’m, I’m sorry, I’ll pay, I—“ he stutters, looking wide-eyed at the photographer.

“Don’t worry about it,” the photographer says. “It’s humanizing.” He smiles, white teeth like a picket fence. “But try to smile. We’re photographing Captain America — he’s gotta look good.”

**…**

Steve’s hands shake. It’s not something that he wants, or that he can fix. They just shake.

He thinks about the photoshoot he fucked-up that afternoon and they shake harder.

He’s trying to draw with charcoal—just buildings, familiar scenes from outside his own window—but his lines aren’t the straight edges and ninety-degree angles that they should be. They falter, and show New York City in fragments, buildings asymmetrical and toppling. It’s not the world outside his window; they’re the chaotic fragments of a burning city in Italy, the remains of the Battle of New York.

They’re the remnants of his own broken, fucked-up head.

Steve throws his box of charcoal across the room. It hits a wall, and leaves a black stain from the impact. Steve stares at the black mark, the trails of black tendrils that slide down the wall to where the box of charcoal sits. They could be Hydra tentacles, his unhelpful brain supplies. They could be following him now.

He leaves the room.

**…**

“Steve, Steve!”

Breathing hard, Steve feels the cold press of metal against his chest. He looks down, and Bucky’s hand is there, pushing gently and grounding him. There’s sweat dripping down his brow, and Steve can feel the wetness of the sheet and pillows around him. He’s sweating. He’s shaking. And Bucky is staring, blue eyes and metal arm reflecting light even in the dark room.

“It was a dream,” Bucky says, moving his hand to run through Steve’s hair. He wants to preen, to push himself further into Bucky's touch. He wants to cry and shake and have Bucky hold him until he stops. “It was only a dream,” Bucky repeats, and Steve bites down hard on his lip to keep from crying out.

Taking a moment to put himself back together, Steve pulls away from Bucky and pushes himself out of bed. “Steve?” Bucky asks.

“It’s fine, Buck.” Steve impresses himself with the steadiness of his own voice. “Like you said, it was just a dream.”

Nothing worth bothering Bucky about. Nothing worth being a burden.

**…**

There’s something off.

Bucky is in the laundry room of their apartment complex, laundering their set of sheets. It’s the third time he’s had to this week. Steve sweats through them in the night, and Bucky launders them when Steve is working during the day. Bucky thinks that maybe it’s time for a trip to Bed, Bath & Beyond for an extra set, just to cut down on how much time he has to spend in the dingy basement laundry room. He knows what Steve’s reaction will be: “C’mon Buck, we don’t need it,” but before Bucky came around, there was nothing… excessive about the apartment at all. Nothing that wasn’t given to Steve by S.H.I.E.L.D., nothing that made it his own. Now there are some framed drawings, stacks of paperback fantasy novels, actual food in the kitchen. He wants the place to be Steve’s and Bucky’s. Theirs. Together.

Sometimes he wonders if Steve wants the same things.

**…**

“I can drink,” Bucky says as the bartender slides a bock beer in front of him. “If there’s one good thing about all the bullshit, it’s that I can still drink.”

Sam snorts, then adds, “Sure I can think of a thing or two more.”

“Maybe one.” Bucky looks at his glass, willing his voice to stay strong. “But he’s not doin’ too hot.”

Sam sighs, relaxes into his chair. “Yeah, that’s not surprising.” He pauses, thoughtfully watching the neon lights on the back of the bar blink. “He wasn’t doing all that well before you came back.” Bucky looks over to Sam, waiting for him to continue. “I mean,” Sam begins with a little sigh, “Do you think he’s slept a full night since he woke up? When he had a mission, felt driven, I think he could force his way through his issues. But now that you boys are settling in? I’m not surprised he’s having trouble.”

“I don’t know how to help.” Bucky traces a droplet of condensation down his glass. “I can barely take care of myself; I don’t know what he needs.”

“You’re not going to fix him, or whatever your hero complex makes you think you need to do.” Bucky shoots him a little glare, which Sam rolls his eyes at. “But there are things you can do: be patient, be kind. Make sure he feels safe, and that you’re there for him to fall back on, to support him.” Sam pauses as the bartender puts his rum and Coke in front of him; he nods and thanks her. “It would be nice to see him at the VA. We haven’t seen him around in a while and there are trained professionals there.”

“I’ll try,” Bucky says. “I’ll try.”

**…**

Bucky gets home and sees Steve on the couch, listlessly watching some cooking show on TV. “What do you think they do with the food?” he asks, looking up at Bucky.

“Eat it?” Bucky suggests.

Steve shrugs. “I’m not sure.” He looks back to the TV. “Seems like a waste, otherwise.”

Bucky sits down next to Steve before grabbing the remote and turning off the TV. Before Steve can protest, Bucky presses close to Steve’s side and kisses his shoulder. Steve hums in appreciation, and Bucky slings his metal arm around his shoulders before pressing a kiss to Steve’s neck. Bucky swallows hard. “I love you,” he says quietly to Steve’s throat. He takes a little shuddering breath and pushes in closer, cheeks heating and heart beating fast.

He’s said it before, and so has Steve. But it’s not something that he feels like he _needs_ to say. They love each other; they communicate it through kisses and glances, touches and sex. Neither are insecure enough that they need to tell each other every ten minutes. But the truth is it’s not something they can bring themselves to say that often. They’ve loved each other in silence, before _Will & Grace_ and Stonewall. Hell, Illinois was the first state to remove their sodomy laws, and that was in 1961. Instead, they knew what happened to people like them in Germany. Steve knew what it was like in a back alley to be even accused of loving a man.

They’ve always had a quiet love, an enduring, quiet love. But today, Steve has to know, and Bucky has to be brave.

“Buck?” Steve asks, straightening up, becoming alert.

“We have a future,” Bucky says, words coming fast as he tries to remember the advice Sam gave him. “Me and you. This apartment, or maybe somethin’ a little closer to the water. We can look around; I don’t care. And we could get a dog, like you wanted to, or a cat, like I wanted. Or hell, we can get both. Big ol’ golden and a little white kitten. Our Christmas cards will be obnoxious. You’ll sell your art and I’ll, I dunno, I’ll teach a free self-defense class for women and girls.” Steve snorts, but it’s in a good way. It makes Bucky smile, stop shaking a little. “We can do all that, y’know? We’ve got the chance.” His throat tightens a big, and he holds Steve a little harder. “But we can’t do it if we don’t figure out why you’re hurtin’.” Steve breathes sharply, and Bucky rushes to get the rest out before either of them start doing something stupid like crying. “And Steve, baby, I know that you’re havin’ trouble. It’s okay to lemme know, y’know? I _love_ you, and we gotta help each other. Or at least lemme find someone who you wanna talk to. Doesn’t gotta be me. Let Sam, or somebody at the VA, or we’ll find someone else, just please, Steve. I don’t wanna see you hurtin’. I wanna see you smile. Just wanna see your smile.”

His eyes are watering, but he’s sure it’s just allergies.

Steve’s allergies must be acting up, too, because when Bucky finally looks up, there’s a tear rolling down his cheek. “Buck,” Steve starts, but his voice comes out a little weak. “I want that, too.” He takes a heaving breath. “I’m just tired.”

“Tired,” Bucky agrees. “Lemme help you rest.”

There’s a moment, just a moment, where Bucky thinks Steve may argue. That he may put up his metaphorical shield straighten his back and walk away. But he doesn’t. Instead, Steve slumps over, wrapping his arms around Bucky in a tight hug. “Okay,” he says, burying his face in the crook of Bucky’s neck. “Alright.”

**…**

Steve sketches the German shepherd puppy sitting across the street in charcoal. He’s trying a new style—sketchy with fast, sweeping strokes that show the puppy in movement, ears twitching and tail wagging as he runs around his owner’s feet. Drawing the pup makes Steve smile, and is a good way to pass the time while he waits for Bucky. He likes this new style, too — drawing things in motion and full of life, rather than depressing scenes from inside his own head.

Bucky walks up just as Steve finishes his sketch, carrying one of the green reusable bags they use for groceries. “Hey,” he says.

Steve looks up, unable to stop his own dopey smile. “Hey yourself. Budge over.” Steve obliges, scooting to the other side of the bench so Bucky can sit. “How was your appointment?” he asks.

“Alright. Dredged up my past, worked on some breathing exercises.” He pauses. It’s still a little raw, a little hard to talk about his sessions with Sam’s friend Veronica. But he likes her, and likes the big mutt she brings with her to the office and who noses his way over to Steve for pats as soon as he walks through the door. “It was really fine,” he says. “Thank you for asking,” he adds, sincere.

Bucky smiles, bumping his shoulder against Steve’s. “Good,” he says. “I got you a cupcake, one of the stupid ones with bacon sprinkles and shit. Thought you’d wanna try the best the 21st century has to offer.”

“Thanks,” Steve says, reaching for the bag. Bucky wraps an arm around his shoulders, and Steve unearths his cupcake, and he thinks that maybe, just maybe, things will be okay.

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: Depictions of Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder/Depression, including nightmares and anger. (If you notice any other warnings that I should add here, please let me know!)
> 
> For anyone interested, my Tumblr is whtaft.tumblr.com!


End file.
